My UTMB (2017)

It’s UTMB weekend, so I thought I’d share this account of my own experience at Chamonix, one of the high points of my running career (published originally on my website on September 1, 2021). So back in 2017, I ran the Ultra Trail du Mont Blanc. UTMB is a 105-mile race around the Mont Blanc massif. It starts in Chamonix, France and goes counter-clockwise around the mountain through Italy, into Switzerland, and back to Chamonix. It’s mainly single-track trail, and it has about 30,000 feet of climbing. I’m writing this account in August of 2021 (4 years after the fact), so it skips a lot of details (my trail amnesia is notorious), and relies mainly on the notes I took back then. Thankfully, UTMB also publishes detailed tracking data for every runner, which is how I know my arrival times, my position in the field, and other details. My Facebook post on the day of the race is probably a good way to begin. Here it is: Under 5 hours to the start of UTMB 2017, and I’m feeling incredibly privileged to be here, thankful for family and friends here with me, touched by all the messages of support from afar, and mainly very eager to get underway. I’m feeling all-systems-go: well-rested, physically/mechanically sound, gear and nutrition packed-up and ready (final pack weight 12.8 lbs.), race plan (and charts, of course) in place. There’s some dramatic weather (that’s the best kind) in store (message from the race this morning: “ATTENTION snow >2000m and temperature felt -9C”), and lots of climbing in some tough and beautiful mountains. I intend to savor every moment of it, and do my best to represent our PA trailrunning culture and community in a worthy fashion — I am both overwhelmed and inspired at the thought of that responsibility. Thank you all. The Start It was exhilarating, the crush of so many runners in such a small space, the nerves and the cheering and all that crowd energy — I’ve not been part of a start like that in any other ultra, nor in any race since maybe the Chicago Marathon back in the 90s. This is truly the closest I’ll ever get to the Olympics. In a start like this, you have almost no autonomy, no option other than to go with the flow of the people around you, no faster or slower. And you’d best balance your desire to take in the spectacle of it all with some concentration on the surface at your feet, especially as the road gets rougher on the outskirts of town. If you fall here, you’ll be trampled. First Night: Crowds, a collision, allez-allez, and finally some peace in the very early morning The first night is a blur. I have a few clear images in my mind, but not much context for them other than “first night” — no real sense of where exactly I was. The images mainly involve the dreadful crowd, the endless conga line that is unavoidable in the early stages of a race with over 2500 people. Patience in a crowd is easier on the climbs. You know you should go slowly anyway, and the crowd helps with that. You pass every so often when an opportunity presents, but mainly you just slog along with everyone else. But the downs… these early descents were maddening. They were easy, and they should have been fast. They were slick, yes (from heavy dew and mud and maybe some rain), but I train for that (and I was wearing my Altra Kings), and I wanted to go. But the crowd, that slow, hesitant, maddening crowd… Some people were frustrated enough to take risks. We were on a long grassy down, a giant sloped pasture laced with a meandering web of interlocking cattle paths. These multiple paths allowed for a large speed differential between the confident and the hesitant, but there were some tight turns. One overeager young speedster in front of me lost control on one of those turns, and smashed into another runner at full speed in a brutal collision that left them both lying in the grass. Patience, patience. The first town, Saint-Gervais, was a welcome introduction to how it would be in villages for the rest of the journey — Tour de France-style crowds lining the entire route through town. Cheering and waving, high-fiving kids… …and that perfect French cheer “Allez Allez” that rolls off the tongue so smoothly and hits your ear and your mind so perfectly. It holds no judgment or false hope, only an insistent “go”, and it’s so much better than our own weak “nice work” and “you’re looking good”. The only other notable thing from that night was some time I spent with friend Lee Connor. We had leapfrogged a couple times through the night, but somewhere past Les Chapieux (mile 31) we started running together. The field was beginning to string out by then and we settled into a smooth and chill late-night cruise, with maybe 10 miles of good running and good conversation, through the final couple hours before dawn. It was a slow start, but through the first night I moved up steadily and by morning I was solidly into the mid-pack. Second Sunrise Second sunrise is a special time, and it usually means you’re nearing the end. But in a race like this, you’re just getting started. Which means you have to fight to maintain intensity. I might not have done that. The first rays of the rising sun caught the south face of Mont Blanc as I climbed from Lac Combal (mile 41) towards Arete du Mont Favre. It was the most striking and beautiful second sunrise I’ve ever experienced. I don’t regret pausing for that photo. But it wasn’t the only one. That’s how it goes for me, and it’s the reason I rarely do this in a race — taking pictures flips some subtle switch, and I drift into tourist mode. Racing and “just running” are two very different experiences and they give me different things, different views of a place. Both are valid and both are beautiful, but I enjoy them in different, non-interchangeable ways. In tourist mode I lose my focus and I drift from my purpose. I drifted in many ways through this second day. Day Two: Drifting, aid station lollygagging, and a magnificent blizzard Maybe you can see it here as I’m leaving Col Checrouit (mile 47). The glory of that sunrise is past and I’m settling into the warmth of the day and the long miles still ahead. My mouth is full of food, my stride is relaxed, the look on my face is just a little too satisfied… it’s not bad, and it’s sustainable (which is important, since I’m not even halfway), but I’m clearly not pushing the way I did through the night. I’m in tourist mode, autopilot, just drifting through a beautiful day in the mountains. By the time I got to Courmayeur (mile 49), that drift was taking its toll, and I was getting sleepy. Renee was delayed getting through the tunnel from France to Italy, and by the time she arrived, I was slipping into that stupor state of the sleep deprived. The rising heat of the day accentuated the effect. Movement is the answer for that, and I finally did move on. And of course I cycled through the slump as I always do, kept on keeping on, but it was uninspired. The most notable part of day two (other than sunrise) was the blizzard. I’m not sure when the weather changed, but in this photo on the descent to Arnouvoz (mile 60) at about 1:45pm, it’s cloudy and I’ve got my hat and raincoat on. At Arnouvoz, no one could leave without donning rain pants. I was irritated — as long as it’s above 0F, I’m in shorts. I thought of trying my “it’s okay, I’m an American” line, but instead I just went along with the indignity of it and put the pants on. This is a public episode. 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